


raison d'être

by starlithero



Category: Kirby (Video Games)
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Astronomy Facts™, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Headcanon Dumping Ground, Other, Some Plot, Swordfighting, Trauma, Worldbuilding, little narrative distinguishment apart because they're gay, not finishing this but ill leave it up cause i still like the writing, or whatever the tag for gijinka fics is i dont care, two protags with textual ambiguity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-12-27 10:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21117512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlithero/pseuds/starlithero
Summary: Galacta Knight makes a call for help. They don't expect it to come in the form of a butterfly-winged, soul-ferrying swordsman, who, for whatever reason, genuinely cares about them.The two of them work together to navigate a world they're total strangers in and find a new sense of purpose.





	1. this might as well be happening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just would like y'all to know that this fic is a very elaborate Headcanon Dumping Ground™, as well as my excuse to be gay and talk about astronomy facts. have fun lol
> 
> morpho and galacta are genderless btw so thats why they/them pronouns. there are other nonbinary characters later on too

Galacta Knight had completely lost the concept of the passage of time. Even breathing inside the crystal was impossible, let alone opening their eyes and attempting to make sense of their surroundings through the semi-opaque rock. Wherever their prison was, there was no sensation of the aeons flowing through their body, as though time both stood still and rushed by faster than they could even comprehend. They were locked in stasis, just barely conscious enough to have a fleeting thought or two. They could have been there for minutes or millennia with no way to know.

Every now and then, something would reach its icy hand through space and time, dragging Galacta out of their awful dream and throw them into a whole new nightmare where they fought tooth and nail against their summoner. They barely bothered to try and contain the explosive energy within their body as they hacked their way through every battle, desperate to deal a finishing blow and attempt to escape.

No matter the outcome of the battle, whether Galacta tore their foe limb to limb, or was beaten within an inch of their life, the crystal enclosed around them once again, and time fell away like a crumbling tower of sand.

They could not continue like this anymore.

So when, once again, Galacta was ripped out of limbo, summoned to a shrine in deep space, they barely even regarded the one that stood in front of them. It was impossible to tell who it was - one minute, a jester, a puppeteer, a secretary, a boy with a spear, another minute, a familiar masked swordsman, a mage, two little girls, a king. Reality was twisted and violated in this place; the weight of the convergence of so many timelines and possibilities almost feeling crushing to Galacta. There was nothing left in their mind anymore except for the perpetual, white-hot pain that spread across their entire body; the plasma that sustained them blazing wildly, nearly torching them from the inside, and the urge to tear apart everything and burn out like a brilliant star.

The knight said nothing. Their body moved on its own, poised for battle by instinct, but their mind was in agony with pain, screaming for something - anything - to intervene, a silent cry, like a radio burst that ripped through empty space.

It would not go unheard.

A little light fluttered down in front of Galacta, snapping them out of their hollow gaze. They did their best to make out the source of it with exhausted eyes as it danced around in their vision like a quiet flame, before coming to a rest at the tip of the lance that the knight held with an iron grip, a vibrantly colored insect with red and white wings. Something twisted in Galacta’s heart; they felt as though they were obligated to recognize the butterfly, but in their current state it was impossible to think at all.

A little voice spoke in Galacta’s head, and they had a brief conversation that couldn’t be put into words, moreso feelings; Galacta’s desperation for a way out of the cycle they called their life, and this being’s acknowledgement of that desire.

The butterfly flapped its wings, glowing with a delicate pink light, and Galacta Knight’s body felt lightweight and warm for just a moment before their consciousness faded into oblivion.

Galacta Knight had a nightmare - or maybe it was real, but they didn’t really think about it - about fighting another knight in an endless field of red flowers and broken pillars under an empty sky.

The air hummed with electricity and smelled like ozone as they summoned lasers, swords of pure energy, and pillars of lightning, but the small, dark figure they were locked in combat with avoided them all with grace, dancing between Galacta’s attacks. Not even the swiftest strike of their lance could reach them, they were almost too dizzying and fast to watch, but Galacta could make out their butterfly wings, red armor and wide white eyes. Though they gripped a sword, they didn’t attack Galacta, only blocking the hits that connected and sometimes firing a bolt of white-hot fire as a warning to back off.

“Stop.” They commanded. Galacta did not stop, mindlessly continuing the endless barrage of blades and thunder, but they drew closer, just barely grazing the knight’s lance strikes with an impossible ease like the battle was just child’s play to them.

They suddenly hesitated, standing their ground, sword readied as Galacta charged them with their lance. Their blades met, fire burst in the air between them, and the lance shattered to pieces, dissolving into ash. 

The shock of the blow knocked Galacta’s shield out of their other hand and threw them into the ground, twisting one of their angelic wings underneath their body. Their helmet had cracked and fallen apart, leaving their face, their expression full of fear for the world to see. Galacta’s opponent quickly pinned them down with a knee, the knight’s armor disintegrating under their touch, and held the tip of the sword at their throat, the metal threatening to burn their skin.

The two of them stayed there for what felt like an eternity, Galacta completely and utterly stunned, left defenseless, unable to think or do anything but gaze into the swordsman’s calm yet unreadable eyes.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” They finally spoke, withdrawing their sword. pushing themselves away from Galacta, being careful not to step on their wings. Galacta watched as their opponent’s weapon and armor vaporized into flames, revealing their face, dark, with short, fluffy hair, little white freckles running across their cheeks like constellations. Their clothes weren’t like anything the knight had ever seen, flowing black and red robes, yellow gloves held in place by red ribbons. Their wings reminded Galacta of stained glass and gold and fire, and they found themselves entranced by the fluidity of their movement.

“Relax. It’s okay. We don’t have to fight.”

At the sound of those words, all the pent-up tension and adrenaline in Galacta’s body drained away. They sank back into the flowers, letting their wings stretch out, completely exhausted and struggling to keep their eyes open. 

For whatever reason, they were compelled to trust this stranger in a way they’d never felt before. Maybe their mind was just burnt out from the constant battling and god knows how many aeons of isolation, but something about their companion’s gentle expression, their soothing voice, the way they carried themselves with an air of serenity made Galacta want to give in to their commands and let them guide the way.

“...Who are you?” Galacta asked, speaking with an ease that they’d never possessed before.

“Morpho.”

They sat down by Galacta, reached out and gently stroked their short, dull pink hair as a gesture of… concern, or perhaps exemplifying that they weren’t a threat. Galacta flinched, not used to being touched. Had anyone ever even gotten close enough to try?

“Rest.” Morpho said, very softly.

Rest. Rest sounded nice. Galacta hadn’t in a very long time; the stasis of the crystal was a sorry excuse for rest. They closed their eyes, Morpho’s hand brushed against their face, soft and warm, and Galacta plunged into a deep sleep.

Galacta didn’t have dreams while they slept. Probably for the better, considering the sheer amount of stress they’d been under would likely result in some very horrific nightmares. When they woke once again, they were still lying in the flower field - like the crystal, there was no real sense of time in this place, but it felt less like a void stranded far from reality and more like a little pocket encapsulated in it. Some sort of liminal space, they guessed.

“Welcome back.” Morpho said, a touch of relief in the tone of their voice. 

Galacta sat up and turned towards them. They were sitting close by, resting their head on one of their hands and looking at Galacta with something like a hint of curiosity in their distant gaze.

“I’m glad to see you’re still here.” They spoke softly, not quite meeting Galacta’s gaze, as though they were unaccustomed to conversation. “I wasn’t sure of your fate when I absorbed your power.”

A hazy memory flickered in Galacta’s mind like a flame. The altar. “You… back at the shrine?”

“Yes.”

“You were the butterfly?”

Morpho nodded. “I’m assuming you have questions for me.”

“...Absorbed.” There were a lot of things Galacta didn’t understand, and questions spun around in their mind, too many to properly vocalize, but there was one they could try and start with. “What do you mean?”

Morpho thought about this for a while.

“I’ve been following after you for a long time. Those cries - your cries, begging for someone to put you out of your misery, I could hear them, but I was never able to intervene, a force kept ripping you away. But this time… I was struck by  _ something _ while wandering, I have no idea what it was, but it seems like it’s given me some sort of power to do… that. You vanished. I was resurrected as this.”

“Does that mean I’m… dead?”

“Do you think we’d be having this conversation if you were?”

“I don’t know. For all I know you could be some sort of soul-ferrying specter of Death that’s come to destroy what’s left of my mind and claim my power for your own.”

“That wouldn’t be entirely wrong.” Morpho mused.

“Wait, I wasn’t serious.”

“No, not the second part. But you’re right. I look after souls.”

“People have those?”

“Hmm… not like what you’d think. Something like an amalgam of memories and unresolved feelings and regrets that are still attached to the world. I help them move on. No one else will - or  _ can _ .”

A self-appointed duty. “That’s… very kind of you.”

“It’s the only thing I know.” Morpho smiled faintly, but pain hid behind their eyes.

“Sounds lonely.”

“I suppose.” They murmured, and Galacta had the suspicion that it was indeed very lonely. “You’re the first person I’ve had a real conversation with, actually.”

“ _ Ever? _ ”

“Yes. I’m not accustomed to it by any means, so my apologies.”

“No, same here. I haven’t - ” Normally Galacta  _ wasn’t _ able to speak in front of other people. They’d lost that ability a long time ago for reasons they didn’t feel like dwelling on. “I don’t know how I’m talking to you. I can’t talk.”

“You can’t?”

“Not to other people, no. I just… can’t. Even if I want to.”

“...I see. It could just be the unusual circumstances we’re in.” Morpho was very easy to converse with, their demeanor inviting and calm, but the long pauses between Galacta’s questions and their responses indicated that they didn’t particularly enjoy talking (or they at least thought very carefully about what they were going to say), instead being more content to listen.

“...Well, you’re not bad at it.”

Morpho smiled slightly. “Thank you, but I’ll attribute that to observation of others.”

“As the butterfly?”

“Yes.”

“How did you end up like that?”

“I don’t know.” They hummed. “I don’t know anything about myself. I don’t know where I came from, I’m not even sure if Morpho is my name, but it sounds right, so I hope it is.”

“You don’t remember  _ anything _ ?”

“There might not be anything there to remember.” They said softly, and Galacta didn’t know what to say to that.

Their conversations were brief and didn’t really go anywhere after that. Neither of them were used to being around people, apparently, so small talk was basically impossible, and Galacta really didn’t feel like opening up about their own pain. The solidarity was nice, even though neither of them completely understood the situation they’d found themselves in. Just being in the presence of someone who wasn’t afraid of them was strangely comforting.

A few times, Galacta got up to fly around the space. They couldn’t quite tell if there were physical limits to how far it went, but they could feel the boundaries of other worlds boxing them in, which they supposed meant they were trapped once again. Better to be trapped in an open space than a rock that was impossible to move or breathe in, they guessed. It’s not like they’d ever had much autonomy in the first place.

If Galacta had been any other person, they would’ve been eager to escape somehow, but their mind and body were worn out from endless warring and fighting. Boredom didn’t come to them easily, and they were content to wander around and doze off at random intervals and sometimes try to entertain Morpho with a question that would elicit a brief answer. Morpho also seemed satisfied with sitting and doing nothing, and sometimes when Galacta looked over at them, they were staring vacantly into space, as though their mind was completely lost in thought. Or it was empty and they were just meditating. Galacta couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in there.

Maybe it was unbecoming of Galacta as a knight of their caliber to not fight their way out of this place, but they really didn’t give a shit at this point. They were just tired.

Eventually, Galacta began to have different dreams, not the bizarre lucid dream realm that Morpho accompanied them in. Dreams about a strange world with warped terrain made of mismatching grasses and soils and bright yellow goo, massive winged creatures with jagged mouths and gleaming eyes freely roaming around the twisted floating islands, stranded in an inky blue void speckled with temporal rifts and pinpoints of light.

In those dreams, they wandered through this dimension, searching for exits, and occasionally one of the winged creatures would attack before it was either cut down or incinerated by a burst of fire. These dreams never lasted for very long, but every time they occurred, a sense of urgency that gripped their chest got stronger and stronger, and they got more and more lost and fell deeper into the space between worlds.

“How did you end up at the shrine?” Galacta asked Morpho at some point.

Morpho told Galacta a short story about a crystal heart containing a long-dead deity that shattered, streaking across the galaxy, the efforts of three elemental mages and a priest in white to regather the shards and revive their god before they were ultimately stopped by a brave hero.

“The Order.” Galacta breathed, a host of unpleasant memories resurfacing, and rather than ask, Morpho waited for them to elaborate.

“A cult of powerful magicians. I fought them when they were exiled from Halcandra, after their attempt to summon their god - Void - nearly destroyed the world. I sealed away Void with…” Galacta concentrated, trying to remember the companions that had locked away the empty god together, but all that came to mind were hazy flashes of bright multicolored lights, wings of primordial goo, a face with hollow, dark eyes that shifted and shimmered like an oil spill. “...I am surprised that they still exist, though I don’t know how much time has passed since I last saw them.”

“Is Halcandra your home?”

“Yes.” Or  _ was _ , at least - by this point they had likely spent longer in the crystal.

“What’s it like?”

Visions of a shining, sprawling metropolis, as far as the eye could see, towers of glass and marble scraping the clouds filled Galacta’s mind. A realm which they guarded with their last breath, yet could not dream to enter out of fear of the nuclear fire that pulsed under their skin, like an angel pacing at the gates of the garden of Eden. They perched on the spires of skyscrapers, gazing down at the boulevards, the people walking below that they swore to protect but could never know. To the people of Halcandra, Galacta was their guardian angel, a god in the flesh, but to Galacta, the nameless faces that roamed the streets, that cheered when they heard the news of another battle or war ended by their hand (though another would start soon after) were stories they’d never hear, hearts they were never allowed to touch in a meaningful way.

Halcandra was beautiful, in a sort of utopian way, but the sterile white of the marble that almost begged to be broken was an inhospitable reminder of Galacta’s place in their society. What could they even say about it? 

Turbulent feelings welled in Galacta’s chest; nostalgia, loneliness, grief and longing, hints of resentment, and they lacked the words to articulate any of them. 

“I’m sorry.” Morpho whispered.

“It’s fine. It’s just hard to think about.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“...Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Galacta automatically responded. “Maybe.”

“I’m here to listen.”

Galacta took a deep, shuddering breath and steeled their nerves. They’d never spoken a word to anyone about their thoughts (or really, many words at all) and here they were about to spill their heart to a stranger they barely knew, but there was something about Morpho that begged Galacta to open up and shed the proverbial armor around themselves.

“Okay. I’ll try.”

Morpho nodded.

“Halcandra is… my home, yes. I grew up there as one of the many soldiers in training for the Halcandran empire in its prime. I was recruited at a very young age, young enough that I don’t remember where I originally came from, but supposedly someone had recognized me as a sort of prodigy and the empire took me under their wing. It was evident to them that I possessed some sort of unusual strength, but that alone was not the reason they came to revere me.”

Galacta’s hands began to shake. They took another deep breath, steadied themselves.

“I... can control time - slow it down, stop it in its tracks, see timelines where things were happening differently and move between them. Once the empire learned of that ability, it was put to use. To them, there was no battle I could ever lose because I could guarantee the best outcome every single time, and combined with the strength I already had and my training, I became their one-man army, a proverbial nuclear bomb that they used when they needed overwhelming power in their endless wars.”

A voice in their head, some part of Galacta that was determined to never show weakness and bear their burdens silently barked at them to shut up, but there was little they could do to stop rambling now. As they spilled their heart out, visions and memories flooded in, details fleshed themselves out painfully and burned into Galacta’s mind like magma filling the cracks of the earth. Cratered nuclear landscapes, desolated by their hand alone, trees and war machines and dead bodies cut down by their lance crumbling to ash that drifted away in hot wind, lightning crackling in the ruined atmosphere. Dead planets, irreparably inhospitable and broken across time, burning with lava that welled from the crust and incinerated the surface that Galacta had shattered with their immense power. They were a vessel of pure destruction that sowed awe and terror wherever - whenever - they went.

“To tell you the truth, I loved the people of Halcandra. They were my people. I never knew any of them, I never could; even being in proximity of me was dangerous, but I loved them more than anything in the world. I fought all those wars for their sake. I killed thousands across the galaxy, both enemies and innocents, destroyed planets beyond repair or recognition, and I thought what I was doing was right and just because it was for them, and I thought our cause of advancing the galaxy was a good one. I wanted nothing more than to protect them until my last breath.”

Galacta’s face stung and they tried to hold back their tears, because they knew now that the people of Halcandra hadn’t loved them back. They loved Galacta Knight, the Aeon Hero, the god-guardian clad in shining white and gold armor whose body pulsed with ionized plasma and divine rage. Not the lonely being separate from those roles so carefully constructed for them. No one had ever been allowed to know that Galacta.

“...Maybe something within me believed that I didn’t deserve autonomy, that my duty was to give everything I could possibly offer to these people. In their eyes, I was not a person. I was their tool, their deity, a means to an end - at some point, I even lost the ability to speak, so even if I wanted to protest, I had no way to, though I doubt I ever would have. No matter how much I fought, I never died, I always kept going, but the pain stopped being physical a long time ago. I got tired of fighting, but I couldn’t run away from it or admit defeat. And then suddenly I couldn’t take any more, and I completely lost control, and- ”

Galacta’s voice wavered before fading out completely, choking on their own words. It suddenly felt impossible to breathe, like they were being crushed by the weight of the pain that ached in their chest. They began to tremble violently, left in a wide-eyed and distant stare as explosive flashes of light filled their mind’s eye, feeling their skin burn again as they recalled pure energy spilling out of their body, destroying everything it touched, where all they could do was scream as the agonizing pain they’d held in for so long all came flooding out at once-

Morpho pulled them into a gentle hug.

Galacta had never been hugged by anyone before nor had they ever been compelled to, but in the rush of adrenaline and fear that consumed them, they’d never needed a hug more than now, and they reciprocated the gesture. Morpho was warm and soft and felt real, grounding Galacta with their presence, breathing slowly, rubbing Galacta’s back to soothe them. Galacta tried to sync their breathing with Morpho’s, focusing on their touch, and the flood of traumatic memories and pain began to gradually subside until all that was left was exhaustion.

A little too late, Galacta realized they’d wrapped their wide lavender wings around Morpho in some sort of unconscious attempt to hold them closer, but they thankfully didn’t seem to mind at all. They smelled like charcoal and dried flowers.

“...I’m sure you can understand why I was sealed away.” Galacta managed to say after a long while. “It’s a prison created by my own powers. I can’t exist in reality for very long, I just get snapped back into this place where time doesn’t exist. It’s impossible to escape.”

Morpho didn’t respond - there wasn’t really anything one could adequately express with words in such a situation, but their embrace was enough. Any sense of apprehension that Galacta harbored had long vanished by this point.

“...Are you crying?”

“No.” Morpho lied.

“God damnit, if you cry, I’m gonna cry too.” Galacta pulled Morpho closer. 

“I’m not supposed to have any personal feelings on the matter.” They said, their face buried in Galacta’s shoulder. Galacta couldn’t see their expression, but the tone of their voice, which was usually calm and quiet, was distressed enough for Galacta to tell that they did, Indeed, have Feelings about it.

“So your entire duty is just letting people spill their grief onto you, counseling them as impersonally as you can, and then watching them die? Fuck, now I feel bad for  _ you. _ ”

“It is what it is.”

Morpho seemed unwilling to open up to Galacta in return, but the knight wasn’t upset or frustrated with them. They understood the feeling completely, probably better than anyone else in the galaxy could. The burden they carried for the sake of people that didn’t even know them, and the isolation that came with it.

“...I guess it’s just our job to be alone.”

Neither of them had anything else they wanted to say.

Galacta’s last dream was of the altar they’d been summoned at, and the dream quickly turned into a nightmare.

Reality felt violated in this space, flowing with no pattern. The shrine was overgrown with massive blue flowers and plant matter grasped at floating chunks of stone and crystal, quivering and pulsating like living flesh. The floor of the shrine was flooded with liquid that reflected cold planetoids in deep space, and the sky was filled with brilliant light and golden clouds, a sea of dark red resting underneath the crumbling church.

Their body -  _ Morpho’s _ body - had now been thoroughly corrupted by the chaotic energy of Another Dimension, and Galacta knew neither of them were in control of the violent power that buzzed at their fingertips.

Three girls stood before them, dressed in religious robes, standing ready with their weapons with looks of calm determination across their faces. They were not willing to back down without a fight, their hearts set in stone on discovering their purpose in the world.

Even with their mind violated by raw power, Morpho moved with an impossible grace, dancing between the strikes of the sisters, their sword flowing like liquid. Beams of fire practically exploded from the blade, but the blue mage slashed them out of the way with a massive labrys, her fingers erupting with frost, waves of ice emanating from the axe’s edges. Flamberges rained down from the sky, controlled by the red mage who cried out as the swords burst into flames, before a massive beam of electricity split the air in front of Morpho, the yellow mage screaming as lighting blasted out of her partisan.

The mages moved in sync, their teamwork impeccable and beautiful, and though Morpho was doing their best to avoid their assault, their stamina could not match their newfound power. A few missteps later their mask was cracked by the thrust of the lighting mage’s spear, throwing them into the ground before the warrior pinned them to the floor with the heel of her boot with enough force to dent their chestplate. She leaned in close, her face sharp and stern and determined, golden hair glinting in the light, eyes as deep and blue and calm as an unknown ocean.

Without a word, she plunged her partisan through their broken armor into Morpho’s chest with a crack of lightning and a brilliant flash of light. Pain exploded across their body, and Galacta felt it. It was no longer a dream. It was as real as anything they’d ever experienced, and pure terror gripped them - whether it was Morpho’s, or Galacta’s, it hardly mattered.

They blacked out.

“...Do you think we should get someone?”

The ringing noise in their ears began to fade. Someone’s voice, light and carefree. It sounded vaguely familiar.

“There isn’t anyone nearby, though…”

A different voice. Not as familiar. It was a little deeper than the first one, it sounded like it belonged to a young boy.

“We can’t just  _ leave _ them here. Maybe I could run over and get help from a nearby village?”

“What if they’re dangerous, though? They’ve got a sword and armor - well, what’s left of armor, at least-”

“I could probably handle ‘em if they were. You can go if you want.”

“Yeah, but-”

Morpho- or Galacta? - opened their eyes. God, it was too bright. Their head hurt. The sun was right above them, their only respite the two figures that stood over them that blocked out some of the light, faces they couldn’t quite make out yet.

“Oh! Hi!”

They tried their damndest to process exactly what they were looking at. One of the figures leaned in - a child with rosy cheeks, a wide smile, soft pink hair and dark blue eyes that swirled with stardust. Something in them instantly recognized the child, but they failed to recall their name.

“Woah.” A young boy with messy orange hair that was mostly covered by a blue bandana, tanned skin with splotches of white, and warm brown eyes gaped at them. “Uh. Hey.”

“You look kinda hurt. Want some help?” The pink child chirped, extending a hand. They took it gingerly, and the kid pulled them up - maybe a little too forcefully. Oh god, everything hurt so badly. They stumbled and their legs gave out, but the other boy caught them as they were about to fall over.

“Kirby, you have to be careful!”

“Sorry.”

Kirby. They knew that name, but they couldn’t think in the moment. Their mouth tasted like metal. Probably from the mage’s lightning blast.

“It’s okay!” Kirby reassured them. “We’re gonna get you help.”

“Let’s go to the castle infirmary.” The orange-haired boy suggested.

“It’s your day off, Bandee!”

“This is more important than that.” The boy - Bandee? - readjusted himself so they were carrying the barely-conscious knight on their back. “I think I can take them. They don’t weigh much. Take the sword with you, we should hurry.”

“Okay!” Kirby said cheerfully, and the sound of metal scraping against the ground came from a few feet away.

“You’re gonna be alright.” Bandee reassured them. “Just hang in there.”

Black spots began to swim around in their vision, and the pain in their body became too great to withstand anymore.

The world faded away into black.


	2. go make some friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kirby is an unstoppable force and can and will eat everything out of your pantry
> 
> also fyi i got a tumblr if y'all wanna see the designs its noddybee

They were tormented by brief moments of painful lucidity in between bouts of unconsciousness. A warm spring breeze. The sound of echoing halls, golden lights and red carpets. A gentle, worried face looking at their own, someone setting them down on something soft. Weight being removed from their head and shoulders, concerned voices, whispering and wondering about who they were and where they came from, names that sounded all too familiar and foreign at once.

And after the commotion had finally died down, and the lights went dark and the sound faded away, they fell into a dreamless sleep, recovering as much of their lost vitality as they could.

They were getting a little sick of waking up in unfamiliar places.

This time they were, thankfully, lying on their side in a soft bed (someone had actually pushed two beds together to accommodate their wings) rather than half-dead in a ditch or locked up in a crystal. Their body ached with dull pain, though it was incomparable to what they had felt fighting the mages. Sunlight streamed in through the windows above them, bright and golden and filling the otherwise sterile room with a gentle glow.

Still, something felt wrong to Galacta.  _ Very  _ wrong. A mix of anxiety and confusion surged through them. This was Morpho’s body, right? Why were they there?

“Don’t worry.” Morpho whispered quietly. A wave of calm overcame Galacta at the sound of their words.

_ What’s going on? _

Rather than answer, Morpho elected to sit up, carefully, though it took considerable effort, letting both of them see their surroundings. It seemed like some sort of infirmary - Galacta remembered hearing that word somewhere recently - but their area was curtained off, so the rest of the room wasn’t observable. Someone had left a large, heavy quilt on them that bore bright red and yellow patterns across its fabric and soothed their stress with its weight. They listened carefully, hearing the sounds of people walking and snatches of conversations on floors above them as well as below. There was a chair nearby, and a small table with a little plush bird toy and a bundle of wildflowers on it, tied together by a piece of pink yarn.

_ Does this help? _ Their voice again, but this time it was as though Galacta was imagining them speak rather than hear it aloud. Getting a better view of their surroundings  _ did _ help confront the anxiety of “are we in immediate, life-threatening danger”, but it didn’t address the actual question Galacta had.

_ How come both of us are…? _

A couple of ideas flitted through Galacta’s head, ideas they didn’t completely understand, that weren’t quite their own - it must’ve been Morpho wondering how to answer the question. Which feelings were theirs and which were Morpho’s? If they were equally confused, it probably didn’t matter.

_ Galacta… your power is what let me take on this form. Whether this is what I used to be, or something entirely new, I do not know. But I don’t see any reason why your consciousness would just go and disappear. _

Galacta still sort of wished they could fade into oblivion and become someone else entirely, but it was never as easy as that. Nothing had ever been easy for them. And yes, there was now the fact that Galacta no longer had their own body and their mind felt like it was nearly melding into their companion’s, but the more they thought about this the more they came to realize they actually didn’t care all that much. Eons of wars and battles and isolation had broken them inside. There was no point in getting worked up about anything now.

Besides, Morpho was calm and easygoing and kind and seemed to genuinely care about them, which was a lot more than Galacta could say about most people they’d met.

_ When I was trapped in that other dimension, _ Morpho elaborated,  _ sometimes I felt you there, like you were trying to wake up. It seems that this was only a matter of time, then. _

Galacta remembered their strange dreams, the world of chaotic terrain and rifts.  _ You were trapped in Another Dimension? _

_ If that’s the world between, then yes. I didn’t know how to leave, and the longer I stayed there, it… started doing strange things to me. At some point, I wasn’t myself anymore. _

Galacta had absolutely been warned about this before, or at least they’d heard the discussion come up in the presence of dimensional scientists. Don’t linger too long in Another Dimension. It’s dangerous, its nature as the medium between worlds corrupts power and twists it into something it’s not. It’s a den of chaos where time and space don’t function correctly. Of course, there was no way for Morpho to have known any of that.

_ Let’s not worry about it anymore.  _ There was a pang of stress in their thought. It must have been frightening to be trapped in a place they didn’t understand, slowly losing what little sense of self they possessed until nothing recognizable was left.

They instead chose to focus on the bundle of wildflowers, blue and purple and covered in little flecks of pollen. Galacta hadn’t seen flowers like these before; there was no room for wildflowers in Halcandra’s pristine cities. They were pretty. Morpho agreed. 

A door cracked open somewhere. Two sets of footsteps began padding over in their direction, and a cheery voice was babbling about something or other enthusiastically.

“Keep your voice down, Kirby.” Those words were alien and confusing to Galacta, spoken in a language they weren’t familiar with, yet they still understood their meaning.

“But they haven’t woken up for days...”

_ Days? _

A hand pulled back the thick curtain, and a little chubby face peeked out at them, which burst into an expression of joy once they saw the knight was awake.

“Hiiiii~!”

“Kirby, wait-!”

Kirby skipped over, light on their feet, dressed in a pink jacket delicately embroidered with golden stars, and red shorts and shoes. The bandana-clad boy dashed in after them - he wore some sort of orange uniform with red and yellow sashes - and snagged Kirby by their yellow neckerchief, like a mother cat picking up one of its kittens.

“I  _ just _ said to keep your- oh!”

Bandee (that was his name, right?) followed Kirby’s cheerful gaze and saw that his visitor was finally awake.

“My apologies!” The boy exclaimed, bowing profusely, yanking Kirby down into a bow as well. “We didn’t mean to disturb you while you’re recovering. Please forgive us.”

“It’s - it’s okay.” Morpho responded, both of them slightly fascinated by this amusing little exchange that was playing out. Kirby was absolutely enthralled by the sound of Morpho’s voice, and they wriggled free of Bandee’s grasp and scooted over to get a better look at their face.

“I’m Kirby!” They said cheerily, expression beaming like the sun, dark blue eyes glittering with the beginnings of a young nebula. “And this is Bandana Dee! I call him Bandee.” (So it was a nickname…) “What’s your name?”

Bandana Dee seemed a little embarrassed at Kirby’s complete and utter lack of tact, but frankly, it was adorable. But what were they supposed to tell them? They elected to go for the easy answer.

“...Morpho.”

“Cool!” Kirby picked up the bird plush and used it to point to the flowers on the table. “These are for you. Also I left the birdie here ‘cause I thought you’d get lonely.”

This child was almost sickeningly precious.

“Morpho... We found you, um, in a field nearby,” Bandana Dee began to explain, “and you seemed injured, so we brought you here to my liege’s castle-”

“And Dedede yelled at us for bringing weird people into his house.” Kirby interjected, and Bandana buried his face in his hands out of embarrassment and sighed deeply. Morpho smiled, Kirby’s face broke into a playful grin, and Bandana muttered something like  _ please don’t encourage them _ under his breath.

“...So, how are you feeling?” Bandana asked hesitantly, cocking his head, warm brown eyes filled with concern and curiosity. 

How were they feeling? Still in a decent amount of pain from getting stabbed through the chest and electrocuted by the golden mage, even if the wound they’d sustained had disappeared. They fluttered their wings experimentally, startling Bandana slightly, and immediately grimaced - moving them hurt, and they were tattered at the edges, like a butterfly that’d been attacked by a bird. They could only assume those marks had come from the priestesses’ blades. (Hopefully, they’d regenerate.)

They were also completely exhausted, despite having slept for so long. And, given the circumstances, both of them were very confused, though that was probably a given, and they were at the very least thankful that they seemed to be safe for once. Kirby and Bandana seemed trustworthy enough, if they’d brought them to wherever this place was and had been looking after them.

“Better.” Is how they decided to respond, which absolutely wasn’t the right word to use considering their physical and mental state, but it was the only one they could seem to think of.

“Ah, that’s good… are you hungry?”

Kirby perked up at the sound of those words, blue eyes sparkling with stars and anticipation.

When was the last time either of them had eaten? Definitely not in recent memory. The seal on Galacta had locked them in permanent stasis, unaging and undying, and Morpho certainly couldn’t recall anything. They probably should now if they’d been wandering Another Dimension for heaven knows how long and then been unconscious for days on end.

“I suppose.”

“Okay, let’s go break into the pantry!” Kirby shouted with absolutely no sense of volume control, and promptly dashed past the curtain again and scampered out of the room.

“Wait, you’re gonna get in trouble- Kirby,  _ no- _ ” Bandana reached out to grab Kirby again, but they were already long gone.

Bandana Dee groaned as he gently sat into the chair, wringing his hands with anxiety. “The king is gonna be upset with me… oh no…”

“Your… liege?”

“His Majesty King Dedede, the ruler of Dreamland!” Bandana perked up with enthusiasm, a smile splayed across his warm face. “And I am the proud captain of his Royal- oh.”

There was a crashing noise coming from one of the floors below, a scampering noise and a loud yell. Bandana buried his flushed face in his hands again. It seemed as though this was a common occurrence here. There were a few more moments of silence and Bandana wallowing in misery, whispering pleas of forgiveness under his breath before footsteps, light and quick, came pattering into the room.

“Okay I’m back I found some macaroons and tomatoes and also some apple juice for Bandee,” Kirby said, almost too quickly for them to understand as they rushed back inside with a little basket in their arms, very loud and heavy footsteps thundering downstairs somewhere, “And also, Dedede is mad at me again.”

“Why did you do that.” Bandana asked, as less of a question and more of a statement.

“Because it’s funny.”

Rather than argue, Bandana Dee elected to admit defeat and take the apple juice from Kirby, cracking open the cap of the bottle. Kirby put the basket of tomatoes on the table and snatched one, eating the whole thing in one bite and quickly seating themselves on the floor by the table so only their little face could be seen.

“Hold on.” Kirby said, finishing the tomato at record speeds as they pulled a small switchblade out of their jacket pocket and took another one from the basket. They neatly carved off the leafy stem on the top (and then ate it, to Bandana’s disgust), before cutting it up into halves and handing one of them to Morpho. “Eat this. It’ll make you feel better.”

Morpho had no reason to not comply, so they did, though eating a tomato on its own seemed a little strange. Not that it didn’t taste good, but they wondered why Kirby had specifically offered them this. To their surprise, their pain began to fade away, and they looked at the pink-haired child with some mixture of awe and confusion. Kirby smiled knowingly.

“I…”

“Maxim tomatoes.” Bandana explained. “All the crops that grow here can heal little injuries - cuts and bruises, but the tomatoes are, uh… the strongest, I guess.”

“And they’re my favorite food~” Kirby said in a cute little sing-song voice. “But you can have the rest of this one ‘cos you need it more than me.”

“...Thank you, child.”

“Just call me Kirby! And eat this, too.” They exclaimed, handing the other half of the tomato to Morpho.

“Alright, then.” They laughed, accepting their offer. “Thank you, Kirby.”

Kirby beamed at them, their cheeks bright pink.

Bandana glanced away anxiously. The footsteps down the hall got louder and louder until the door banged open and the shadow of a massive figure stretch across the stone walls. 

“ _ Kirby _ , I’mma  _ clobber _ you t’kingdom come, ya little-” a deep, drawled voice began as it got closer and closer. Kirby grinned widely, and Bandana shivered with anticipation.

An absolute mountain of a man fully flung back the ajar curtain. He was tanned, with thick, bushy blue eyebrows accenting his crown, and his chubby face, full lips, ruddy nose and bright blue eyes were all scrunched up in anger as he gave Kirby a death glare. His expression then shifted rapidly between many different emotions (mostly confusion) as his gaze flitted from Kirby’s mischievous smile, to Bandana’s guilty-looking face chugging the bottle of apple juice, then to Morpho, and he seemed a little spooked when his eyes met theirs.

“...Ah.”

He sighed deeply. “Alright, pipsqueak,” He pointed at Kirby, “You get to live this time.”

“I’m sorry, Great King.” Bandana said glumly. King Dedede ruffled his hair, and Bandana’s namesake headwear fell in front of his eyes.

“Welcome, stranger.” King Dedede addressed Morpho, finally, leaning down and extending his hand for a handshake. They took it hesitantly and almost instantly regretted it. Good  _ god _ , he was strong. His hand, protected by thick orange gloves, wrapped around theirs completely and nearly crushing it as he gave them a vigorous greeting, his speech briefly slipping into a more formal tone. “I am King Dedede, ruler of Dreamland. Though I’m assumin’ you’re not from ‘round these parts.”

The king wore silky, regal red robes with fluffy white trim, and simpler, tan robes underneath that were held together by a red and yellow sash. Something about his attire filled them with a rush of nostalgia they couldn’t quite place.

_ What’s with that? _ Galacta asked. They sensed something like confusion from Morpho, which they supposed meant that they didn’t know, either.

“You got a name?” Dedede asked with a tinge of impatience in his voice.

“Mmph.” Kirby said indistinctly through a mouthful of tomato.

Dedede frowned. “Hm?”

“Morpho.” Bandana corrected. Dedede’s face scrunched up in confusion for a minute.

“You don’t really hear names like that anymore, huh? Where are you from, exactly?”

“I…” Morpho hesitated. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

The king squinted at them in suspicion. “Whaddya  _ mean _ ya don’t know?”

“I can’t remember.”

“...Memory loss? Well. Damn, that’s a shame. The pinky brought you in all roughed up in armor, like you’d gotten in some sorta scuffle. I just assumed you were one of Meta Knight’s buddies, but he said he’s never seen ya before either.”

That name was  _ so _ familiar to Galacta, they knew they’d heard it before somewhere in their distant past, but couldn’t quite place a face (or a mask, or a sword) to it.

“Honestly. Thought there were so few of y’all left that y’all knew one another or somethin’.”

“What?”

“Well. It’s not like ya see… like...” Morpho’s confused look was clearly not helping Dedede find the words to express what he was trying to communicate, and he gestured in exasperation. “Pah, whatever. Bring it up with him when you meet him - he should be ‘round here somewhere, anyways. Hasn’t left since I told him ‘bout ya comin’ in.”

Meta Knight. Galacta thought of the name, repeating it over and over again. A brief image flashed in their mind; a golden sword, a silver mask, yellow eyes.

“You give ‘em one of them Maxim tomatoes, Kirby?” Dedede asked, interrupting their train of thought. Kirby nodded in affirmation, slightly preoccupied with opening a small box of… something. 

“Alright, good. At the very least it’ll help ‘em heal up better… Oy. Pinky. Gimme one of those macarons.” 

Dedede motioned for the little box that Kirby had gotten into. Kirby blew a raspberry at Dedede.

“Alright, ya rotten Kinder Egg, if that’s how you’re gonna be then I’m never gettin’ em again.”

Kirby very quickly offered Dedede a blue macaron, which he ate in one bite.

“So,” Dedede began, addressing Morpho this time, “I dunno exactly what brought you to this lil’ old backwater country o’ mine, but if ya got nowhere else to go, we can talk ‘bout that later. Get as much rest as you need. We’d better head out an’ give you some space - I’ll make sure that someone comes to check on you every now an’ then.” They nodded in affirmation, and Dedede ruffled their hair affectionately (did he just do that to people?) and gave a pointed look at Kirby, who was preoccupied with the cookies. “Pipsqueak.”

“What?” Kirby said, licking bits of macaron off their fingers.

“You made a big ol’ mess in the pantry, and it ain’t cleanin’ itself.”

Kirby’s eyes dilated, the stardust within them glittering with mischief, and a smile snuck onto their face as they stuffed the box of macarons in a jacket pocket.

“Don’t ya  _ dare- _ ”

Kirby scrambled away into the hall like a feral animal, Dedede hot on their tail, creating an absolute cacophony of noise as the king shouted at them to clean up after their messes.

“Great King!” Bandana called, starting to follow, then stopped to look at Morpho, clearly conflicted about whether he should stay or go.

“You can go.” Morpho told him. “I’ll be fine.” 

Bandana bowed hastily.

“Please, rest well!” Before they could even utter a  _ thank you _ , he blitzed out of the room, leaving them alone once more. Morpho sighed, quietly, settling down again and drawing the heavy quilt over their shoulders.

_ Are you okay?  _ Galacta asked, their dialogue lessening the feeling of them functioning as one with Morpho.

_ I’m tired,  _ Morpho responded. _ Talking is... well, difficult.  _ they elaborated.

_ No, I get that. I hope I’m not wearing you out as well. _

_ ...I’ll manage. I’ve just spent so long observing events in the form of the butterfly that I’m used to only listening to others. After all, you can’t exactly hold a conversation with someone under the guise of an insect. _

Galacta felt a flicker of sympathy ignite in their heart; as unspeakably awful as their own ordeals had been, they hadn’t been trapped in the form of an insect for as long as they could remember, seeing and hearing everything but unable to communicate, like a living ghost.  _ You really are very lonely, aren’t you? _

_ Not anymore. _

They could feel Morpho smiling, their face and chest tingling with warmth, and for a solid three seconds Galacta lost the ability to have a coherent thought.

_ I’m going to sleep again _ , Morpho told them, snapping them out of whatever the hell that emotion they just shared was.  _ I’d ask if you’d like to as well, but I think you don’t have any other choice. _

_ That’s fine. God knows I need it. _

_ I suppose that settles it, then.  _ They mused, finally letting themselves succumb to their exhaustion and closing their eyes. Almost instantly their breathing fell into a quiet, sleepy rhythm.

Galacta tried to stay awake, even if just for a brief moment, though, exhausted and surrounded by darkness there wasn’t much of a point. They felt an emotion flicker in their chest that they hadn’t felt in a very long time, so long that they’d forgotten the word for it. It felt sweet and full of hope.

They drifted off to sleep.

They woke once again, some of their lost strength regained, but with the creeping, distinct feeling that someone was watching them very, very intently.

The day had faded long ago, the room now lit by cool and gentle moonlight that turned everything it touched silver rather than gold. It was still and quiet. No footsteps sounded through the great halls. That lingering sensation of eyes boring into them compelled them to sit up, anxious to find its source.

A man sat in the chair, his arms folded, and though the darkness of the room made his form and colors somewhat indistinct Morpho could clearly see his piercing yellow eyes, blazing like twin suns, drilling holes right into their very being and sending shivers through them.

“Morpho Knight.” He said, and his voice was deep and smooth and confident and sounded frustratingly familiar. “Good evening.”

Galacta suddenly withdrew into their own memories. They  _ absolutely  _ recognized him. They’d fought him twice (maybe more? They weren’t sure), and out of the hundreds of people that had made the mistake of summoning Galacta and challenging them to a fight, he was by far the strongest of all of them. He was skilled and precise and had the honor of being one of the only people to ever defeat Galacta in combat.

Meta Knight. The name finally clicked. Morpho let go of a breath they didn’t know they’d been holding in. 

Meta Knight watched them expectantly, as though he were waiting for them to say something. He must have been able to sense their tension from across the room. “The king sent me to keep an eye on you.”

Morpho nodded in understanding. 

“You don’t seem very talkative.”

“I’m not.”

Meta Knight hummed with dissatisfaction and rose from his chair, moonlight glinting off his armor. He strode over to where they were sitting, the metal in his shoes clicking on the floor, his movements smooth and full of purpose. Here, where faint light streamed through the windows, they could get a better look at him, though his face was entirely concealed by a sharp-looking silver helm save the narrow slit that granted him vision. He wore light armor over a blue-and black uniform and donned a thick, midnight-blue cape. They could’ve sworn they saw stars floating in its fabric.

“Sir Meta Knight.” He introduced himself, finally, though, unfortunately for him they’d already gotten the memo on that.

“...And it seems as though you already know my name.” 

“Well, Kirby was very excited to tell me about meeting you. It’s not every day that a mysterious swordsman arrives in sleepy little place like Dreamland, so I’m sure you can understand their enthusiasm.”

“They were nice to meet. They’re very sweet.”

“Maybe a little too sweet for their own good.” Meta Knight sighed, folding his arms. Morpho gave him an inquisitive look, but he didn’t elaborate.

“I have a request for you.” He began. “There’s something I’d like you to see. Are you able to move?”

“...I think so.” Their pain and exhaustion were both, for the most part, gone. They glanced back at their wings, which, thankfully, seemed to have repaired themselves of the damage they’d sustained from the priestesses; moving them no longer hurt. Phantom embers drifted in the air as they fluttered, illuminating the space around them in a faint auburn glow.

“Then come with me.” He turned on his heel fluidly, drawing his cape around himself, and sauntered away. They wondered for a moment if this was a good idea, a seed of doubt forming in their chest.

_ If he’s got any honor as a knight, he has no reason to attack you while you’re unarmed. _ Galacta reassured them.

_ Let’s hope he does. _

After a moment of hesitation, they quietly slid out of the bed to follow after him. Without armor weighing them down, they were light on their feet, barely touching the floor below. Meta Knight brushed past the door and beckoned towards them from within the hall. 

They marvelled at the architecture of the castle; cream-colored brick, great vaulted ceilings, gold-trimmed windows with elaborate designs and pillars filling the spaces between them. The same symbol that adorned King Dedede’s robes were delicately embroidered into great banners that hung on the walls and from the ceilings. All of it was washed in silver light. And maybe Morpho had seen all of it before, but then it was in a dreamlike haze that was true for everything they’d experienced, now, it all felt so real and tangible.

Meta Knight turned back to look at them, and though they couldn’t see his face they felt as though he was regarding them with something like interest in his eyes, like he was watching someone who’d once been blind see the world for the first time.

“This isn’t quite what I was thinking of. It’s up this way.”

He motioned from within a nearby stone stairwell, disappearing into its darkness. There was no sign of him once Morpho caught up, and the spiral staircase was pitch-black aside from the faint light coming from the phantasmal embers that drifted around them. They ascended the steps carefully, feeling a cool breeze from further up. A faint stream of light peeked out from around the bend in the stairs. A large wooden door stood ajar; they pushed it out of the way and let the wind flow through the stairwell and moonlight spill across the stones.

It was absolutely clear outside, with a cold and gentle gale blowing, the sound of trees rustling and banners whipping in the wind. The void above was deep and inky and infinite, speckled with bright stars that filled its endless expanses, a splattering of milky light stretching like a grand river in its darkness. Thin and brilliant rings of dust and ice arced above the horizon, reflecting the light of the sun and stars, letting it spill across the plains. Two moons hung in the sky, one half-shattered, threatening to fall apart and be torn into rubble by the planet’s gravity at a moment’s notice. 

They could have been lost in this sight forever if they wanted, but the sound of rippling fabric pulled them out of their wonder.

Meta Knight stood atop the roof of one of the castle’s towers, staring at the sky, his back turned and his cape billowing in the wind.

_ ...What the hell is he doing up there?  _ Galacta asked.

_ I think he’s trying to compensate for something. _

When Galacta first spoke to Morpho, they didn’t get the impression that they were a whimsical person or really indulged in humor at all, but some of their offhand comments suggested otherwise.

_ He’s a whole head taller than you.  _ Galacta pointed out; Morpho was quite a bit smaller than most people, though it didn’t seem to intimidate or bother them that much.

_ I guess it isn’t enough. _

Meta Knight turned, leering down at them from atop his perch. They could sense his height complexion all the way from here.

He leapt down, cape trailing behind him, gracefully landing on his feet - ever so slightly showing off his athleticism.

“...Is this what you wanted me to see?”

“Indeed. And to talk.”

Morpho stared at the sky, fixating on the shattered moon that trailed across the ecliptic. Meta Knight followed their gaze.

“That’s Kirby’s fault.” He said, with a hint of a smile in his tone.

“I - excuse me?”

“It’s a very long story. That particular event was responsible for creating the debris rings that orbit the planet. They’re quite young rings - maybe someday they’ll coalesce into another moon, or the rest of the moon will fall within the planet’s Roche limit and form more rings.”

Morpho couldn’t help but stare at the moon with this knowledge in mind, looking at the fractures across its surface, the places where the crust cracked and caved in and gave way to empty space and dust.

“You wouldn’t see a view like this anywhere else in the galaxy.” Meta Knight mused quietly.

Maybe. It was uniquely beautiful. Words weren’t nearly enough to describe it.

“This planet,” He began, “Is Planet Popstar. A peaceful planet, largely undeveloped, though the Ancients established some colonies, thousands of years ago, shortly before their demise. They’re worn-out ruins now. There’s almost nothing of interest here to a galactic warrior like you. Am I correct, Morpho Knight?”

Morpho was silent. Meta Knight tilted his head.

“Well?”

“I don’t know.”

“What exactly don’t you know?”

“Why I’m here.”

“How am I supposed to know you’re being honest?”

They didn’t have an answer for him. They were a total stranger here; they had no way to advocate for themselves, and Meta Knight had no reason to believe them or trust that they were telling the truth. He began to pace back and forth.

“Let’s try a different question, then. What are you? What do you do?”

Morpho had the sneaking suspicion that if they didn’t answer this inquiry either that they were going to get into some sort of conflict. Still, it was a difficult concept to put into words.

“...If something were to perish, I am the one who gives it judgement, so to speak. That is all.”

They could’ve sworn they could hear something click in his Meta Knight’s head. He stepped back. Through the slit of his helm, Morpho could see the details of his wide eyes, great pillars of golden dust and pinprick stars spilling through a brilliant void.

“No. That doesn’t make any sense. That’s just an old folktale.”

There was a sudden, suffocating feeling that overwhelmed Galacta and snapped them into their own sort of headspace; the dimensions around them felt like they were being tampered with and sealed off, like someone had trapped them underneath a glass cup. They saw Meta Knight’s fingers itch, wrapping around the hilt of an unseen weapon. 

“I can’t believe you- and those goddamn butterflies-” Meta Knight swore under his breath. He glared at them, eyes burning like suns as all the pieces fell into place and he came to understand something deeply distressing. “Have you been hiding in plain sight this entire time? Just watching and waiting? Answer me.”

Morpho did not.

With his free hand, he motioned, and space wrapped around them like fabric, leaving them with something heavy on their chest and shoulders. Armor, their armor, layered and intricate and as good as new from their fight with the mages. Their sword, serrated and crimson, was embedded in the floor in front of them, waiting to be drawn from the stone.

“Shall we let our blades speak in our stead, butterfly of paradise?”

His words sent a chill through them. “...Why?”

“I am a knight of honor. I will not strike you down without a chance to defend yourself. But, if you are a danger to this planet.” He began, gracefully drawing a sharp golden sword from the depths of his cape, “I will destroy you for its sake. And don’t think about running. You can’t escape me.”

_ Morpho _ , Galacta called out.  _ I don’t know how, but he’s doing something to space here. I think he can control it. _

Though they were surrounded by open air, the area around them felt cut off, as though it were isolated from the rest of the world. Perhaps having free reign over the domain of time made Galacta spatially sensitive - the two were intertwined in many ways, after all. Neither of them had no reason to not believe his threat.

_ Be careful.  _ Galacta warned, recalling for a brief moment the violent encounters they’d had with Meta Knight.  _ He’s strong. _

Morpho took up their sword. Under Galacta’s advice, they switched their stance to a defensive position, feet spread and knees bent, attently watching their opponent.

“Meta Knight,” They called, in one last bid to deescalate the situation, “...I don’t want to fight you. Please, let’s just talk.”

He glared at them. “Talking hasn’t got us anywhere, has it?”

Before they could respond, he darted at them, blindingly fast on his feet, sword poised to pierce through them. They forcefully parried the strike, trying to push him away and create distance between the two of them. 

Each one of Meta Knight’s swings and thrusts, though they may not have carried immense strength, were impossibly swift and precise. His control over his blade was impeccable and perfect, every step he took tight and and every movement full of purpose. Morpho parried and dodged his attacks, dancing out of the way of his slashes and strikes. One parry locked their blades together, and Meta Knight tried to overpower them with strength.

“Why won’t you fight back?” He asked, gritting his teeth, trying to force them to fall.

Morpho said nothing. A sudden compulsion to fall back and let Meta Knight strike them overtook them. They looked him in the eyes, golden yellow versus bright white, and gave in.

_ Morpho! -  _

Meta Knight plunged forward, his sword suddenly up against nothing but phantasmagorical butterflies that dissolved into tiny embers. Morpho reformed in a burst of fire above and behind him and drop-kicked him on the head, making a loud  _ clang _ as their foot met metal, knocking both of them to the stone floor. 

Galacta, more of a passive observer in this scenario, was both deeply confused and fascinated by the short sequence of events that had just taken place as the two knights lay there for a few moments.

_ That was not one of my best ideas.  _ Morpho thought, slightly dazed and out of breath, sitting up and removing their foot from Meta Knight’s head.

_ It worked, though. You got him pretty good. _

Meta Knight was sprawled out on the ground in a rather undignified manner, his sword lying a few feet away. 

_ ...Shit, I did.  _

Morpho rose to their feet and backed away slowly, their blade readied. Meta Knight shakily pushed himself off the ground, snatching up his sword in one hand and clambering to his knees. His breathing was ragged - they might’ve knocked the wind out of his lungs.

“You’re-” He started, gasping for air, clutching his sword as he tried to pull himself to his feet, “Not the only-” snatching his cape in his free hand, “One with tricks.”

He swung his cape around himself and vanished. Morpho gripped their sword, looking around, anxiously waiting for him to strike. 

_ I can’t tell where he went.  _ They said, their internal tone one of fear.

_ You’re stressed out.  _ Galacta responded. _ We can’t feel where he is like this. Focus. Breathe.  _

They took a shaky breath.  _ We.  _ Galacta’s power was Morpho’s, too. They focused on the openness surrounding them, felt for movements that weren’t there, phantom actors dashing between the intangible curtains of a stage.

_ Left! _

Morpho spun around and parried a strike from Meta Knight that should have been impossible to anticipate. Their blades caught on each other, taking him completely by surprise.

_ While he’s stunned, disarm him- _

They twisted their grip, wrenched his blade out of his hands with all their strength and flung it aside forcefully, hearing it clatter several meters away on the stone floor.

“ _ Stop. _ ” Morpho commanded, raising their voice, and for a moment everything seemed to go still and silent. Meta Knight froze in place, totally shocked from being suddenly disarmed, the look in his eyes one of bewilderment.

“...I understand why you don’t trust me,” Morpho began, hesitantly, dropping their sword. “You have no reason to - and it’s clear that you care deeply about the wellbeing of this land. I respect your dedication to protecting it. But please, believe me when I say that I mean no harm. I don’t wish to fight.”

Meta Knight said nothing, but his gaze acknowledged their statement. Morpho offered him their hand.

“We don’t have to be enemies.” They gave him a gentle smile. “Let’s be friends.”

After several seconds of hesitation, he quietly, reluctantly, reciprocated the gesture and shook their hand. The look in his eyes suggested that he still regarded them with a great deal of suspicion, but it was a step forward from sword-fighting on someone’s roof in the middle of the night.

“Thank you.” He whispered, his voice suddenly vulnerable and genuine. Immediately, he stiffened, releasing his hand and stepping back, briskly walking away to retrieve his sword. 

“I suppose this is my cue to leave.” He announced, sheathing his sword back into the depths of his cape.

“Where?”

He gazed at them judgmentally. “We’re not there yet.”

“Oh.”

“I will return. Later. In the meantime, I have a patrol to partake in and a crew to attend to.”

“Don’t feel obligated to stay, then.”

His expression shifted from a harsh one to one of solidarity. “You seem to understand the importance of duty. I can respect that.”

Maybe he had some sort of sympathy for them buried deep under his suspicion and animosity. Something unfurled out from under his cape - dark, sharp-looking bat wings that could’ve been mistaken for fabric at first glance. 

“Goodbye, Morpho Knight.”

He looked back, nodded at Morpho as one last acknowledgement, before leaping into the air, flying into the horizon until he was only distinguishable as a small, dark silhouette in front of Popstar’s broken moon.


End file.
